


shoot first, ask questions later

by celestial_horizon



Series: responsibilities [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Gun Violence, Hurt Peter Parker, Michelle Jones Is a Good Bro, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Past Character Death, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Police Brutality, Poor Peter Parker, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Whump, i guess?, i’m sorry class, seriously somebody come give this kid a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 04:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15811674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestial_horizon/pseuds/celestial_horizon
Summary: All Peter wanted to do was stop a damn bank robberyorA hostage situation leads Peter to a bank. He tries to stop it, but the police have other plans.





	shoot first, ask questions later

**Author's Note:**

> Hello ! I’m back with another one-shot to help overcome my writers block haha. It’s getting pretty dire since I start school again in a few weeks and who knows how much of the Big Bang I’ll be able to get some once that all starts, but we’ll just have to see.
> 
> This does tie into my last one-shot, but you by no means need to read that one to understand this, though I’d recommend doing so anyways ;)
> 
> There will definitely be more parts to this, I think I’m going to make it a series of sorts about Peter dealing with the aftermath of Infinity War/Avengers 4 and all the other bullshit I end up putting him through lmao. So stay tuned !!
> 
> Without further ado... Enjoy !

All Peter wanted was to stop a damn bank robbery.

 

It was routine. Low-level thugs, trying to make some quick cash by threatening the lives of every person inside the building— including children. No biggie. Pete was already on patrol, mere blocks away from the bank when Karen alerted him of the situation.

 

He was there in record time, surprised to find practically half of the entire police force and a SWAT team already on the scene. Nobody had made any attempts to rescue the hostages or take down the criminals, however, so Peter took it upon himself to jump onto the window overlooking the interior of the bank.

 

Just as he’d expected, a group of about twenty-six people were huddled into a corner, two men training their guns on them and three other criminals that he could see. The rest of the group were probably inside gathering the cash.

 

Hostage situations were what totally irked Peter the most. Holding a single cashier at gunpoint for a couple hundred bucks at a convenience store, stealing a car or a bike, those were completely different stories. They were more annoying than anything to Peter. It was when they had to go all out and hold dozens of people who were simply going about their day against their will, pointing semi-automatic rifles right between their eyes that really got Peter going. And as he peered through the window a moment longer, he could see the kids that were reported to be among the hostages. A flare of rage and disgust appeared in Pete’s gut. They were _terrified_. Tears streamed down their faces as the children— the oldest couldn’t have been older than 11— dug their faces into their mothers, clinging to them like a lifeline.

 

Peter raised a fist, about to break the glass when a man’s voice boomed through a speaker behind him.

 

“Get your hands on your head!” He said. All guns were now pointed directly at Spidey. The hero sighed dramatically. Of _course_.

  
Peter should have known better than to go through the front. His reputation and relationships with the NYPD weren’t exactly at its best at that moment.

 

J. Jonah Jameson, the head of the Daily Bugle, was cracking down on him harder than ever before. For the past two weeks, every single headline on the front page had something to do with Spider-Man. And no, of course it wasn’t ever about him saving two families and a couple from a near-fatal car accident that occurred at an intersection last weekend, or his recent team up with the international hero War Machine to stop a gang from blowing the Disney store in Times Square to smithereens, it always had to be something negative.

 

 _Spider-Menace Aids Bank Robbers in Midnight Heist._ Yes, they may have driven away with their bags full of cash. But Peter had caught up to them several blocks away and arrested the crew, returning the money to the small Chase Bank within ten minutes. _The Wall-Crawler Strikes Again!_ This one had claimed he _kidnapped_ a woman. In reality, she was about to get hit head-on by a semi-truck and Pete swooped in at the last second, setting her down safely in a nearby alley. In return, she had attempted to kiss the teenager. Peter awkwardly declined and swung away before he could make it any worse, if possible.  _Masked Menace Causes $150,000 in Damage to the Central Park Zoo._ A giant mutated lizard had crawled out of the sewers and began to wreak havoc on the place. He always tried his best to keep the collateral damage at a minimum, but it was either the Tigress  & Cubs sculpture or ten schoolchildren on a field trip. He thinks he made the right decision.

 

_Spider-Man Fails to Save Residents in Friday Night Apartment Fire. Nine Dead_

 

That one stung the most.

 

Peter couldn’t argue with it. He wasn’t quick enough. Six adults, three children.

 

His fault.

 

So, despite the fact that he had been considered an Avenger just months ago and did nothing but save— or at least, _try_ to save people, J. Jonah Jameson’s influence spread throughout the tri-state area, turning at least half of New York against him. It didn’t help that just the other day somebody robbed a bank in the Bronx dressed as the vigilante. Peter had to admit, the costume _did_ look pretty convincing, but the fact that the guy didn’t use any of Spidey’s signature powers and brought two guns to the robbery should have raised suspicion. He had a getaway car, for fuck's sake. If Spider-Man was to actually rob a bank— hypothetically, of course— he’d have just swung away with the cash.

 

Nevertheless, Chief Watanabe of the NYPD called for his arrest. So here he was, staring down the guns of dozens of police officers.

 

  
“Come on,” Peter shouted down at them. “You’re talking to the _real_ Spider-Man. Not that phony from the Bronx. Seriously, when have I ever even gone there?”

 

  
The force was unphased by this. “You have to the count of three!” The same officer yelled through the speaker as if having his voice amplified wasn’t loud enough.

 

  
“I know you guys have a job to do, but there are children in there and I could wrap this up in two shakes of a—“

 

  
“This is your last chance!” A chorus of clicks ran through the crowd of cops, announcing that the safety on their pistols was now off. Peter’s spidey sense tingled in warning.

 

  
“Guys! Hello? Are you even listening to me?” He tried again. “I am _here to help_! Does it look like I’m trying to rob anything? If you’d just let me—“

 

  
“Take him down!” The man bellowed.

 

  
Everything happened too quickly. Peter was fast, but not that fast, especially when there are at least fourteen guns firing on you all at once.

 

  
The young hero darted to the side, avoiding a spray of bullets that would have torn his left side open. He swung his arms and legs around instinctually, just as his sixth sense told him to and he managed to avoid the onslaught of fire that came his way.

 

  
Unfortunately, perching on the window ended up being not such a good idea. The bullets smashed through the glass, cracking and shattering the pane at every spot and from every angle. Within seconds it became too much and it crumbled altogether, leaving Peter with nothing to reach out for or stand on.

 

  
The hero began to fall to the ground at an alarming rate. Just as he reached his arm out to shoot a web at the ledge, a blinding pain ripped through his shoulder. The free fall left him virtually defenseless against the rain of fire, and one lucky officer managed to get a shot at Peter right between his neck and upper arm. He let out an involuntary cry of pain, the web he shot long forgotten. Peter free-fell twenty feet from his place on what was once a window to the ground, colliding with the glass-littered sidewalk so forcefully he blacked out for a minute.

 

  
When he came to, he was being hauled off the ground by officers who were screaming threats at him, all something along the lines of “Make a move and I’ll blow your fucking brains out!”

 

They slammed Peter against the hood of the police vehicle before he could fully process what was happening. It wasn’t until one of them grabbed his arm and pulled it behind his back that he was finally shocked back into reality. His vision went white for a split second and he was sure he’d screamed again.

 

“M—My shoulder, you— Agh! Don’t—!”

 

  
“You’re under arrest!” The same man that was talking to him through the speakers before barked. “You have the right to remain silent!” Handcuffs were secured around his wrists with two faint  clicks. _No, no, no,_ Peter thought.

 

“Anything you say can and will be held against you!”

 

 

“Please, j--just listen!” Peter shrieked again as the officer to his left purposefully shoved his hand into the younger man’s shoulder. Overcome with pain once again, he slumped in their hold.

 

 

“Grab the mask!” The third cop shouted to the other three holding him down.

 

“Let’s end this damn thing.”

 

  
Peter tensed up again.

 

  
_No_ , he thought, glancing around through weary eyes. There were dozens of photographers and it seemed every major media outlet in the surrounding area were here. Cameras were all pointed directly at the weak hero, live videos being shot by professional cameramen and cell phone videos getting taken by citizens who’d just happened to be passing by. _Not here_.

 

  
Peter’s spidey sense went even more haywire when somebody placed their hand on his head. Their fingers tightened around the fabric, bunching it up to pull upwards and reveal his identity to the whole world.

 

  
“No!” Peter bellowed, kicking out at two officers, sending them flying into another. He whipped his head back, cracking it against the man who was attempting to take his mask off. The cop stood dazed for a moment before falling to the ground unconscious. _Sorry not sorry,_ Pete thought.

 

  
He jumped to the roof of the car, narrowly avoiding two bullets fired by a nearby cop. “I didn’t do any--“

 

  
This time, the teenager was cut off by his own shout of pain, the feeling becoming unbearable with each slight movement of his left shoulder.

 

  
“Freeze!” Every officer shouted to him at once. His sixth sense warned him once again and just in time. He leaped onto the building opposite of the bank, clinging to it by nothing but his feet. Peter sprinted up the wall, bullets shooting the brick just shy of his heels. When he finally reached the roof of the building he slid to the ground, using the raised ledge of it as cover while he worked to get the handcuffs off.

 

The adrenaline was helping, but not nearly as much as Peter needed it to be. The pain was indescribable, shooting from his shoulder all the way through his left arm and into his torso. He lied there for a few moments, panting and groaning as he collected himself, mentally preparing for what was he was about to do.

 

  
The handcuffs were putting an incredible amount of stress and strain on the teenager’s injured shoulder and if he was to run from the entire police force he needed the pain to be somewhat eased and had to have his arms somewhat mobile.

 

 

“Okay, okay,” he whispered to himself, tears threatening to spill. Peter could distantly hear Karen trying to speak to him, but the hero’s focus was solely on surviving and getting the _damn handcuffs off._ “Come on, Peter,” he muttered one last encouragement before pulling his arms in opposite directions, attempting to snap the small chain that connected the two cuffs. They barely budged. Since the amount of super-powered individuals were at an all-time high, the NYPD must have further reinforced their cuffs. But Peter had to try.

 

  
The will to not get caught and somewhat alleviate the excruciating pain he was in swept any doubt or pessimistic thought away for the time being. Peter mustered all of the strength he could, focusing it into that one spot as he grit his teeth so hard he was afraid they might break. At this point, Pete was sure he’d pulled every muscle in his arms. He let out an agonizing cry, a final plea to whatever invisible force in the universe was watching over him.

 

  
It was as if it’d listened. An instant later the metal finally snapped apart, leaving his arms free. Peter clutched his shoulder desperately, lying on the hard ground of the roof. He wheezed, almost sobbing with relief until a circle of light illuminated the space around him from above. He didn’t need to turn his head to know that the swooshing sounds were that of helicopter blades.

 

  
Peter wasted no time, leaping across the rooftops, just barely avoiding the spray of bullets that came from the helicopter which was now pursuing him. “Freeze where you are!” The pilot shouted as if Pete would actually listen to him.

 

 

His legs burned just as terribly as his lungs. His hand remained on his shoulder, the blood leaking from the wound soaking the glove of his suit. He was losing too much, but if he stopped now it wouldn’t matter because there’d be twenty more holes in his body for the crimson liquid to escape from.

 

  
He didn’t know how long he was running across rooftops for. His mind was a haze of pain and desperation, so when he caught sight of a dumpster in an alleyway between buildings the young hero did the only thing he could think of. 

 

Instead of jumping onto the other roof like the cops in the helicopter expected him to, Peter simply dropped down into the open dumpster. The trash was enough to cushion his fall, and the impact rattled the wastebasket enough for the lid to slam closed on its own, leaving Peter alone in the darkness.

 

“Son of a bitch,” he heard a woman, who he assumed to be a one police officer, say from the street “We _had him!_ We had him right in our grasp!”

 

 

“I can’t believe this,” a second officer muttered. His walkie-talkie sounded, a man saying something to the two Peter’s pain-filled brain couldn’t even begin to understand. Even with all that static, the pair seemed to understand, and retreated back towards the bank.

 

  
Peter let out the breath he was holding, ripping off his mask that felt as if it was suffocating him. His shoulder was on fire, and once glance down at it confirmed Pete’s suspicion that it had already gotten infected. _God_ , he was gonna throw up. Blood continued to leak out despite his best efforts to put pressure on the wound, and the teen felt himself getting more and more lightheaded with each passing second.

 

 

“Oh, God,” he breathed out shakily, voice laced with agony. In his time as Spider-Man, he’d broken bones, gotten so many concussions it was a wonder he wasn’t a vegetable by now, was blasted by alien technology, slashed by knives, a couple times he was even stabbed, but never once shot. He could have never imagined it would be so purely _harrowing_ and _excruciating_. Movies and shows made it look so easy. The shoulder was supposed to be the best place to get shot. If he lived through this— which, if going by the way he felt, he totally _wouldn’t_ — he was going to write a letter of complaint to every fucking studio that brushes off gunshot wounds to the shoulder like no big deal. Yeah, that’s what he’d do. Peter was already making a list in his head: Supernatural, Skyfall, The Long Ranger…

 

  
Peter jolted himself awake. He couldn’t lose consciousness if he wanted any chance of making it out of this.

 

  
_What was he going to do?_

 

  
It wasn’t like the days before The War. He didn’t have the Avengers a call away like he used to. Peter guessed it was partially his fault. After… Tony died, he’d pushed the team away. He was better off alone, as were them. He was just a kid, he has no place among them, no matter what they all tried to say. But they let him leave. Peter recalled hearing Doctor Banner saying something about “giving him time” and that “he needed space”. Of course, that was five months ago. None of them would want to be bothered with a damn kid, and he wasn’t about to ask Black Window or Colonel Rhodes to fly all the way to Queens to save his ass from a dumpster. They’d given him space. If any of the Avengers wanted him back on the team, they’d have contacted him about it by now. But they didn’t, and he was left to his own devices.

 

  
One minute turned into five, which turned into ten before Peter finally gained the willpower to slip his mask back on.

 

 

“Karen?” He croaked. The screen came to life, red flashing before his eyes as she reviewed his condition.

 

  
“Peter, your vitals are dangerously low. I suggest immediate medical attention. Would you like me to call Doctor Banner?”

 

  
Peter’s eyes snapped open at the mention of his name. The anxiety and dread that coursed through him at the mere thought of having to face one of the Avengers again was plenty to clear his head enough to come up with a plan. It was a ridiculously risky and half-witted plan, but it was the best Pete could come up with and frankly, the only option he had.

 

  
“Call MJ.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Thirty minutes passed before Peter heard a cab screech to a halt outside the alley. At this point, Peter was almost delirious. Any normal person definitely would have passed out by now, but he, of course, was no normal person. 

 

  
MJ and the driver exchanged a few words that Peter couldn’t make out before the door slammed shut and the taxi peeled out of its parking space, returning to the more busy parts of town.

 

  
“Peter?” She called. He could hear the sloshing of the pepper spray she no doubt had in her hand. Peter needed to let her know he was in the dumpster before she wandered off somewhere else, but he couldn’t find his voice, at least, not enough to yell out for her.

 

 

He slowly raised his good, albeit shaking, arm up and formed his hand into a fist, rapping five times on the side of the dumpster as loudly as he could. Peter heard MJ let out a small gasp of shock and he immediately felt a pang of guilt for scaring her. This was the absolute _worst_ part of town. A teenage girl with her looks had no place being out there alone.

 

  
Michelle ran towards the dumpster without delay. “Peter?” She said again, voice laced with concern and fear— for probably both his life and her own.

 

  
Not a moment later the lid flew open, the breeze of fresh air that followed bringing a much-needed comfort to his fragile and pained state. MJ stood staring down at him with wide and fearful eyes, hair tight in a sloppy ponytail.

 

 

Peter gave her a weak smile, “Hey,” he rasped, surprised at how horrible he sounded. “Not--“ A groan, “Not doing so well.”

 

  
“Holy _shit_ , Peter. Did you get shot?” She all but yelled. Pete shushed her, attempting to sit up but was immediately overcome with black spots that danced in his vision. He didn’t know how the hell this plan was supposed to work.

 

  
“Yeah,” Peter croaked. Normally, the teen would have responded with something more snarky and sarcastic. Maybe _“Oh, my God, really!? I didn’t even notice!”_ Or a quick Monty Python and the Holy Grail reference: _“‘Tis but a scratch!”._

 

Unfortunately, Peter was a bit too preoccupied with trying to remain conscious and _not die_.

 

 

Michelle reached out towards Pete’s shoulder with her left hand, only to stop when the boy flinched and pressed himself further into the pile of trash instinctively. Instead, she pressed the back of it onto his forehead, moving the sweat-soaked and matted curls out of the way. Her breath hitched.

 

  
“Fuck, Peter. You’re burning up,” Michelle gawked before swiftly slipping her purple backpack from her shoulders and fumbling with the zipper. “I--I brought the clothes liked you asked, and some first aid and water. I wasn't sure what else to bring but it sounded like you were hurt so I panicked and over packed and--“ she rambled, coming to a stop only when Peter tightly gripped her wrist. He stared up at her with pleading and exhausted eyes, opening his mouth. It felt like it was filled with cotton. _Not a good sign_ , he said internally.

 

 

“MJ, listen,” he fought to keep his eyes open, breaths coming out in short pants. The blood loss was really starting to take its toll on the teenager. “We gotta… Gotta,” Peter trailed off, grip on the girl’s wrist loosening. _Just for a little while_ , he thought as his eyes slipped closed.

 

Everything was gone for a little while until he felt a hand smack painfully across his cheek. He awakened with a gasp at the sharp pain, nearly leaping out of his skin before realizing with relief that MJ was the one shaking him.

 

 

“...eter. Peter!” His hearing came back to him all at once. Upon seeing that Pete was awake and alert Michelle slumped against the dumpster, brushing a few of her curly locks away from her face and tucking them behind her ear. “Jesus, Peter. Don’t scare me like that!” Peter could hear her heart beating wildly, her own breath coming out shakily and almost as unsteady as Peter’s. “You have to stay awake. Now explain to me what your fucking plan is before I kill you myself.”

 

  
“Clothes,” He groaned. “Did you-- Did you bring the clothes?” MJ nodded before pulling out a grey t-shirt, a pair of jeans and socks, and two dirty, worn out Nike shoes. So that’s where they went. He’d been looking for them for weeks now.  
“I still don’t understand,” Michelle spoke, the clothing still in her arms. “Why would you need to change?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Peeling off the Spider-Man suit and pulling on his normal clothes was probably the most excruciating and physically draining experience of his life, up there with lifting the warehouse Toomes dropped on him and… _disappearing_ on Titan. Halfway through, MJ had him bite down on the strap of her backpack because Peter noticeably drew blood from biting on his tongue and lip so hard. His screams and shouts of pain became too much for her to bear, and the fear of somebody investigating the noise and seeing a young teenage girl helping a young teenage boy change from a superhero suit to regular clothes covered in blood from a gunshot wound of all things led her to practically shove the thick fabric of her Jansport between his teeth.

 

 

Once that was done, MJ was tasked with keeping Peter upright and conscious as they began their four block walk to the nearest hospital. Yes, _that_ turned out to be Peter’s plan. Change into civilian clothes and have Michelle drag him to the clinic where he’d be treated. What they were to do from there, MJ couldn’t say and apparently neither could Peter. The risk of his identity being discovered was pretty high. A young man with a gunshot wound to the exact shoulder in the exact same spot that Spider-Man had just gotten shot— _very_ publicly, might she add. You couldn’t go on media outlet without seeing some kind of headline or post about the Queens hero getting shot, almost arrested, and chased down only to disappear.

 

MJ had been, understandably, _terrified_ when it was going down. She had news alerts set up for anything and everything that had to with Spider-Man. And no, it didn’t mean anything significant. Any good friend would do the same. So, as soon as the local news station’s live stream of the bank robbery slash hostage situation unexpectedly featured Spidey, her eyes were glued to the screen. The helplessness she felt upon watching that bullet tear through his shoulder and his scream of pain as the cops handcuffed him with unnecessary force was unlike anything she’d experienced before. It wasn’t until thirty-three whole minutes of anxiety clawing at her chest, brain thinking up every possible worst-case scenario that her phone finally rung and her closest friend’s slurred, distressed voice told her to pack a few things and meet him in some back alley across from the old abandoned theater.

 

So, there the two were, stumbling through the front doors of the near-empty emergency room. 

 

 

“Is it too late to just take a cab to your house?” Peter muttered, wincing at the movement MJ opening the door caused his shoulder to do.

 

  
Michelle shot him a glare that was meant to be annoyed and threatening, but she couldn’t mask the worry and sympathy she felt for him. He was pale as a ghost, the blood seeping through his shirt at the shoulder looking straight out of a horror flick. A steady stream of sweat flowed down his face and neck, dampening the collar of the cotton. He stared straight ahead through half-lidded eyes and the unsteady rise and fall of his chest had her longing to not leave his side, but they had to stick to the plan. If MJ walked him all the way in they’d start asking her questions she couldn’t answer.

 

 

“I’ll be right here, okay?” She rubbed his back before stepping away, leaving Peter to make his way to the nurse's station about twenty feet ahead alone.

 

  
It was a slow night, so not a lot of nurses and doctor’s were currently on duty. None of them noticed the path of blood the teenager left behind as he slowly limped towards the center of the emergency room, and it wasn’t until an old, frail-looking woman gasped aloud that two women in scrubs looked up from their clipboards.

 

  
On cue, Peter’s legs crumpled from breath him. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as fell to the ground, the younger of the two nurses catching him as he did.

 

 

Peter was finally out cold, free from the agony he’d been in for the past hour. Everybody sprang into action, the nurse frantically trying to get Peter’s attention to no avail.

 

  
A man came running, bending down onto one knee as he took in the situation.

 

  
“Doctor!” The nurse holding him shouted. “He’s been shot. One gunshot wound to the shoulder. There’s no ID on him.”

 

  
A guy that was sitting in the waiting room stood up to get a better look at the situation. His expression morphed from curiosity to grief, “Oh man, he’s just a kid.”

 

By now everybody was trying to get a better look at what was going on, but Michelle was frozen in place. The doctor’s head suddenly snapped in her direction.

 

“Is he with you?” He yelled. Michelle shook her head.

 

  
“What? No, I’m with my--“

 

  
“Get him into four, stat!” The man turned his attention back to Peter’s unconscious form, the girl no use to him. A stretcher was quickly wheeled in and everybody worked to quickly but carefully place him onto it. His blood immediately stained the white sheets a dark crimson, the white of the sheets matching the shade of his pale skin.

 

 

Various nurses began listing off his vitals as they were taken. “BP is 132 over 82. Pulse 110.”

 

  
“Pulse oxygen is low-- 81,” The first nurse that caught Peter said grimly.

 

 

All MJ could do was watch as they wheeled him away on the gurney, heartbreaking as they hooked him up to machines a cut through his sweater to assess the wound. The cluster of nurses and doctor’s disappeared through a set of doors, leaving Michelle standing in the waiting room amongst the shocked and shaken men and women who sat staring at the still door.

 

 

The same man from earlier that vocalized his shock at the fact that Peter was just a kid stood, casually making his way towards the doors they’d wheeled him through. One he realized Peter had been taken elsewhere and couldn’t be seen through the foggy windows, he strolled back and plopped into the chair opposite a vending machine.

 

  
Michelle followed suit, slumping into the chair nearest the exit with her backpack tucked tightly in her arms. The anxiety that rises inside of her was completely and utterly overwhelming, swallowing her whole and putting her in a sort of deep trance for the time being. The girl stared at the dark laces of her boots, tracing her fingers along a series of scratches in the flimsy, plastic armrest of the uncomfortable waiting room chair.

 

  
Now, all she could do is wait.

 

* * *

 

 

“...do we got?”

 

“We got a John Doe. Kid comes in with a gunshot wound to the shoulder.”

 

  
“Came in on the ‘Homeboy Delivery Service’?” A chuckle.

 

 

“At first I thought so, but he wasn’t wearing the shirt he was shot in.”

 

 

“Wait, he changed _before_ he came in?”

 

  
“Yep. You don’t see that every day.”

 

  
Peter opened his eyes, mind even hazier than it had been before he passed out. Everything was kind of… warped. It was blurry above all and he felt completely out of it. A few moments passed before he glanced around and realized where he was a why he was there.

 

  
Bank robbery, police, gunshot, chase, dumpster, MJ, hospital.

 

  
Right.

 

  
Peter lay in a hospital bed, connected to almost every machine you could think of. His shoulder was bandaged and seemed to be completely taken care of, save for a little pain as he moved his arm to rip off the electrodes and carefully take out his IV. The only thing separating him and his bed from the adults that were stationed outside his little room was a blue-green curtain that shielded him from their view. Pete could just barely make out their silhouettes in his dazed state.

 

  
“You sure there’s no I.D. on him?” A man with a deep voice spoke outside. Peter could hear his utility belt clinking as he shifted, confirmed the teenager’s suspicion that he was a police officer. Thank God the heart monitor was no longer attached to Pete because it began furiously beating against his chest in fear. The fear of his identity getting discovered and what they would do with him once they figured it out.

 

Peter heard about The Raft. While The Accords were officially decimated after Thanos-- _God_ that name still sent a shiver down his spine-- the supermax prison continued its use of holding enhanced individuals who “believed they were above the law”, as Ross would say.

 

 

“He had nothing but the clothes on his back,” a different man who he assumed was a doctor or nurse spoke. “He’s a kid. Seventeen, I’d say.”

 

  
Peter picked up his pace. Everything was off, now he just needed to figure out how the hell he was supposed to get out of here unnoticed. There was no way for him to get out through the curtains. Doctors and nurses littered the space, and to the left and right on him were other rooms for different patients. Peter couldn’t run the risk of entering those areas only to find a nurse or doctor attending to the person there. The floor was, obviously, not possible. The only other option Pete had if he didn’t want to barrel through the sea of employees in plain sight was the ceiling.

 

 

It was made of a series of plaster rectangles-- the kind you’d see in a school or doctor’s office. They could easily get pushed inwards and crawled through. The only problem was that they weren’t the most sturdy material and making his way to an exit or any kind of ventilation system without falling through would prove difficult. Thankfully, Peter could stick to the bottom of the next floor.

 

  
“Is he awake?” The officer asked as Pete stood carefully on the bed, reaching up to move the tile and make an access hole to his escape route. He had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. The bullet had been removed, but Peter didn’t heal _that_ fast and every movement stretched and pulled at the already torn muscle and skin terribly, his metabolism burning through the medicine at a blistering rate.

 

“Not yet,” a nurse replied. Peter froze as he saw the cop’s hand grip at the curtain to pull it back.

 

  
“Let him sleep because he just--“ Pete wished he could thank the doctor for buying him the time he needed to heave himself up through the opening, stick to the ceiling, and slide the tile back into place. The pain was beginning to hit him full force now and as he heard the curtain slid open Peter decided he had better haul ass before the morphine completely wore off and they closed a perimeter around the hospital.

 

 

“I swear, I never left this spot! I was with him the whole time!” The nurse exclaimed, repeating it like a mantra over and over again. Peter hoped they didn’t blame her.

 

 

“Ted, call Frank on the third floor! We’ve got a code green!” The officer yelled into a walkie-talkie. Their voices disappeared as Peter made his way through the ceiling, physically cringing as he came in contact with cobwebs and various other insects that dwelled peacefully in the dark before now. He had to hold back a yelp when he felt something skittering down his bare back. He may have been Spider-Man, but Peter would be damned if spiders didn’t still scare the everloving hell out of him. 

 

Peter finally came to the end of the hospital. He listened carefully for any movement or voices in whatever room was below him before lifting the tile and hopping down. The body throbbed him protest as he landed on the floor, still store from the huge burst of activity he’d had just a few hours ago and newly fatigued thanks to coming down from the short high the pain meds gave him. 

 

By some miracle, Peter ended up in a maintenance closet. It was quite large, filled with not only cleaning supplies but medical equipment as well.

 

Even so, being in such a secluded area wouldn’t help his case unless there was a window big enough for him to escape from.

 

Peter turned and,  _bingo_. A widow sat at the top of the wall just below the ceiling, just big enough for him to slip through. Getting out of there wasn’t much of a hassle unless you counted excruciating pain while doing so a hassle. Jumping down onto the pavement was just as painful as any other movement, the chilly November night atmosphere engulfing him and delivering a shock that woke up his senses, amplifying the gradually increasing pain in his shoulder further. Being outside with nothing but a hospital gown and underwear on didn’t help his case either.

 

  
Now he just needed to figure out how to find MJ and get back home.

 

  
The teenager turned, immediately bumping into a familiar girl about his age. She yelped in surprise, almost falling to the ground if not for the arm that caught her.

 

  
“Peter!” MJ gasped, hoisting herself up and scrambling to regain her footing. “We need to go.”

 

  
“What?” Pete asked, confused as ever. She had just come bursting out of an emergency exit and continuously threw worried glances over her shoulder as they began to speed-walk down the empty sidewalk.

 

  
“They’ve got everybody looking for you. They asked everybody in the waiting room if they saw a patient come through and every one said no but I realized it was you and was worried you’d fallen from the fourth floor or some shit so I panicked and ran but it was stupid because now they’re looking for _me_ and--“ She stopped, seeming to realize she was rambling and took a deep breath. Her eyes scanned over the street, probably looking for somewhere they could escape to or hide in until this all blew over.

 

  
Just then a cab rounded the block, heading straight towards the pair.

 

Michelle was quick to wave them down and the vehicle soon screeched to a halt in front of them.

 

  
MJ practically threw Peter in the back seat to which he made a small noise of protest. It wasn’t anything short of embarrassing. Entering a taxi in nothing but a hospital gown with his left side almost completely covered in bandages? Not to mention the fact that he probably looked like a zombie, if the look the man gave him through the rear view mirror was anything to go by.

 

  
Michelle tossed her bag beside Peter and clambered in after it, spitting out Pete’s home address and telling the driver to floor it.

 

  
They sped away, rounding three whole blocks in twenty seconds. Peter didn’t miss the look on the doctor and security guard’s faces as they watched the taxi race away.

 

  
“You kids get into trouble or somethin’?” The driver questioned. His thick Brooklyn accent didn’t surprise either of the teenagers. He sported a white Brooklyn Nets cap and bore a bemused expression, the peace sign necklace hanging from his neck indicating he was probably partaking in the new hipster fad that was sweeping the borough. Why he was driving all the way in Queens stumped them.

 

 

“No, nothing like that,” Michelle put on her best smile, handing Peter the extra outfit she’d brung so he could finally get out of the ghastly hospital gown.

 

  
“Well, you were in quite a hurry, if ya ask me,” The man rounded a corner a bit too sharply, causing Peter to collide with the inside of the door on his bad side. Pain exploded throughout his body, and if not for Michelle’s hand that flew over his mouth to muffle it, a wretched sob would’ve escaped.

 

 

If the driver saw this, he didn’t acknowledge it. “My brother is deathly afraid of hospitals,” MJ chuckled, trying her best to cover up the nervousness she was feeling. “Trust me, if we stayed another second it wouldn’t have been pretty.”

 

  
This seemed to satisfy the man and they drove the rest of the way in complete silence, the only sound being the occasional wince from Peter as he slowly and so very painfully pulled his clothes on.

 

 

By the time they came to a stop outside his apartment building, he was about ready to collapse and spend the rest of the night right there on the sidewalk. But MJ wouldn’t allow it, and it was already an hour and a half past his curfew. He didn’t want to think about the conversation he would have to have if May had waited up for him. Peter planned to keep this as secret as possible for the time being.

 

Michelle paid the driver and waved goodbye, slinging an arm around Peter to help him through the front doors of the building. There was no way he’d be able to scale the side of the building tonight. Just the mere thought of doing so made his stomach turn.

 

  
“You gonna be okay from here?” Michelle asked as she pushed the up button outside the elevator. Peter nodded.

 

  
“As long as May didn’t wait up for me,” he chuckled humorlessly. “This would be one hell of a night to explain to her.”

 

  
“Yeah, well, she’ll have seen the videos by now. What will you tell her?” The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Michelle handed Pete the plastic bag which contained his bloodied Spider-Man suit.

 

  
“Probably just spew something about my advanced healing taking care of it,” he pushed the _7_  button and looked back up at MJ. “Thank you. For-- For everything.”

 

 

The concerned and anxious expression she had worn the whole night suddenly disappeared, replaced with her usual annoyed, weirdly unsympathetic façade. Still, it didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Don’t mention it.”

 

  
The elevator doors closed, separating him from his friend. For whatever reason, as soon as she left his sight he felt more lonely than he had even in that dumpster. Michelle was with him almost the entire night to support him, and without her, he felt… weirdly and significantly more vulnerable.

 

 

The lift came to a jolting stop, causing Peter to stumble for the thousandth time that night. He crept down the hallway, stopping outside their apartment door to try and find out if May was awake, asleep, panicking, or stress baking as she often did. The teen had to say he was more than pleased to hear soft, even breaths and a silent apartment, save for the quiet noise of the TV playing a rerun of H _ouse Hunters: International._

 

Peter opened the door as quietly as possible, taking much too long to shut the door as to not wake her. He tiptoed through the apartment, stopping only when he came to the couch his aunt was stretched out on. Pete grabbed a quilt from the recliner, unfolding it before draping it over May. He took the remote and shut the TV off, clicking their lamp to engulf the room in darkness. The only light that shone in the room was from the kitchen, a few rays shining over the couches and chairs, draping them in a dim fluorescent golden of the lightbulb. Peter decided he’d keep that light on.

 

 

Peter would never talk about what happened as he entered his room that night. He wouldn’t talk about how he collapsed onto his springy bed, shoving his face into his navy blue pillow to muffle the terrible sobs that ripped their way out of his throat. He would never talk about how he cried, not only for the unbearable pain coursing through his body but for everything he’d been bottling up over the past months. He cried about Tony, his mentor, and father figure lost at the hands of Thanos. The fact that Peter was there and he died saving the universe should have beem some kind of consolation, but it brought little comfort.

 

 

Instead of stumbling into a hospital and leaving without a trace, he could have called for Tony. Bruce would have patched him up and Peter would’ve been good to go. In fact, he bet that if Tony or half of the Avengers were still alive, he wouldn’t have gotten shot in the first fucking place. The only reason Jameson was taking such huge shots at Spider-Man was because he _knew_ there wasn’t a billionaire superhero there to defend him.

 

 

It made Peter feel pathetic. He couldn’t even stand up for himself. He was letting some old man take advantage of him and tarnish his image. J.J.J was taking advantage of this broken, healing world, making the people direct their anger, grief, and trauma to a young kid who was doing nothing but his best.

 

Maybe it just wasn’t good enough.

 

 

Peter swore to himself at that moment that he would be good enough. He didn’t care how hard it’d be or what the emotional or physical cost would be. New York and the rest of the world would see how wrong the Bugle is about Spider-Man. When they saw a picture of the masked hero, they wouldn’t think of the words _menace_ or _criminal_. They’d know he was a hero and a damn good one at that.

 

 

Peter would make sure of it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos seriously make my whole week and motivate me to not just write better, but to live life and do anything and everything else better as well. So they are very much appreciated!
> 
> Also, please excuse any mistakes I may have missed ! It’s currently 1 A.M. and it’s very loosely edited. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading !


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